


His own sex

by RobertLewandowski



Category: British Singers RPF, Suede (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 12:30:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20358544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobertLewandowski/pseuds/RobertLewandowski
Summary: Brett never speaks about his own sex, the ones he shared with Bernard.





	His own sex

***

Brett never speaks about his own sex to anyone.

That makes him a unique figure among all the rock singers.

Justine once told him, that sex, for a rock singer, is just like something for sale - _no one really cares about whether you sold it or not; people only care about whether it was nicely sold_.

“Bretty, you shouldn’t be so shy about it.” said Justine.

Shyness is never a good thing, at least for a rock singer.

“I guess you are right.” - that was Brett’s response at the moment. And then he kissed her.

Since then Brett have started to speak about the sex between him and Justine, sometimes the nasty ones. He still speaks about it now, even if they have long been broken apart, in the nastiest way.

But still, he never speaks, to anyone, about his _own_ sex.

The ones he shared with Bernard.

***

The first time it was in the studio, well to be more accurate, a basement-turned-into-studio.

He just started the band, they were one guitarist short, he put up a magazine advert, Bernard saw it, Bernard found him.

When they met, on a hot summer afternoon, there were no other ones around.

It was raining so heavily when Bernard came, that he was all wet.

All wet and pale and shaky and standing in front of Brett, with his guitar carried on his back.

Brett stared at him. He didn’t need to be shy. It was his call.

Bernard had deep and dark eyes -at least deeper and darker than Brett’s own - with freckles underneath, spreading all over his face. His hair was long enough to hang upon his forehead and cover one of his eyes and, thanks to the rain, stick to one side of his face as if it had always been growing that way. He looked like a junky - not a total surprise.

But there was something special about him, something distinguishable.

His nose.

His big, bony, wide nose. Almost too wide for his wan narrow face.

Brett couldn’t help. He bit his lower lip. Stealthily.

“Play something.” Brett said -

As they were standing among a whole room of crap - old instruments, scratching paper, funny drum machine, emptied beer bottles, half-burnt cigarettes, dusted albums, and a lot, a lot of guilty sweat and orectic smell that suddenly came from nowhere.

“Play what?” Bernard asked, swallowed.

“Anything…” Brett answered, his voice dragged.

Bernard obeyed.

At first it was all melodic, rhythmic, organized and lyrical - Bernard had some voice, not quite as good as Brett’s though. But it didn’t last long.

Soon enough it had already changed - chaotic, more chaotic, fragmented, more fragmented - as Brett touched him, from eyes too lips, from neck to cheek, slowly, softly, carelessly, shamelessly and, suddenly -

There came the kiss.

Brett kissed Bernard. On the right side of his face. Where his hair didn’t fall upon. His face was still pale, yet his skin burnt, burning as hell.

The string played its last note.

The next moment they’d fallen onto the floor.

A filthy miracle.

When Bernard left, it was already sunny - London’s weather is always unpredictable - but that kind of sunny was rarely seen, even in the summer.

Brett thought that Bernard must have got some psychic power within him.

Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to let the sun shine upon Brett and have his heart melted.

***

Brett would love to call that time a total accident.

Well you see, rock singers can only have unexpected sex, but never first sighted love, never.

That’s their “Truth for All Time”.

Even though Brett has to admit, that Bernard’s breathe tasted so nice and his body so tight and warm, and that even the thought of it can still make him aroused.

Pained and tortured as well.

***

The second time it was after Brett and Justine had finally broke off - Brett couldn’t believe that they were even able to waited that long.

Well, he meant, he and Bernard.

Justine had been fooling around and messing up with the Blur guy.

But it didn’t matter. Good for her. Brett didn’t care.

Anyways he thought about Bernard every time he had sex with her.

“I knew she would eventually left, I knew it, when I first saw her.” Bernard said and smiled. He was more than just happy.

“Oh, you knew.” Brett mumbled, not even a proper response.

Then they caressed and rubbed against each other and got naked on the carpet in Brett’s living room.

“It’s expensive.” That was the last thing Brett said before all his senses had gone wild.

He threw the carpet away the next day. It was unwashable.

Bernard was priceless.

***

They shared some moments, some very, very good ones.

They also made a lot of love, love that could happen anywhere - in the studio, in the living room, in the bath, in empty parking lot, in abandoned construction site, in crowded mix of junkies and alcoholics that didn’t even give a shit about them.

They both did drugs at the moment. They both were able to get high and forget about everything.

But they were always sober when they were together, well, at least, making love together.

They did soft things. They said cheesy stuff.

They grinned and tickled as if they were high-school boys.

It was like their own way to build some sort of fortress that only belonged to the two of them, to create a memory of their own.

To remember.

But that didn’t last long either, just like Bernard’s song in his audition, on that hot, dreamlike, summer day -

When Bernard found out in the press that Brett described himself as “a bisexual man who never had a homosexual experience”.

***

“That was bullshit.” Bernard stood in front of Brett, with the magazine rolled in his hand, “You are a total coward.”

_Not necessarily,_ Brett thought, _the thing between you and I was different. There was sex, but it wasn’t sexual at all. There was something more to it, something I couldn’t describe. Like you were the fucking sunshine and I fucking loved you._

But he didn’t say.

At that point Bernard already got himself a girlfriend - a one-day-would-turn-into-wife kind of girlfriend.

So everything became meaningless.

Cowards never called themselves cowards. They blamed the others.

They fucked that day. Brett couldn’t remember how many times they had had sex before. But for the first time it was purely sex. With Bernard rumbling and cursing all the time.

Brett took it all.

***

They still fucked after that. Mostly in the studio.

Bernard did his recording in the morning and waited for Brett to come in the night. Brett came. They fucked. Then Bernard left, leaving Brett to do his recording.

The next day they combined the recordings into a thing called “song”.

Absolute rubbish.

Memories of those days faded very quickly.

The only things Brett could recall were Bernard’s calloused hands, his large nose, his eager gasp, his lustful eyes, his powerful thrust, his heated shots and his forever warm and tight body.

Other than those, everything came into a blur.

Brett couldn’t even remember who was on top of whom.

***

The last time they fucked together it was right before Bernard’s wedding.

“I’m going to get fucking married.” Bernard told him, laughed, almost into tears.

“Oh you are? ” Brett shrugged, like he didn’t even give a damn, “Good luck then. Don’t miss my butt too much.”

“You are an absolute asshole you know?” Bernard sneered at him, “Pathetic.”

“Fuck you.” Brett said. His voice was wet.

And then he did. Fiercely and recklessly.

He cried, and ripped, and penetrated and shouted at Bernard, as if ruining him wasn’t enough - killing him would do better.

Bernard didn’t say a word.

He cried too.

***

When happily-married Mr. Butler came for him after the wedding, Brett had already thrown away all his stuff.

Although in the end it was all filled with hatred and hurt, there was still something good about it.

Whatever between him and Bernard, it was just sad, but never nasty.

Most of the things Brett tossed without a blink, except for Bernard’s guitar.

Brett touched it and kissed it, like worship, and then left it on the street, outside the studio.

He hoped that someone might pick it up and take Bernard forever away from him.

But no one did.

Until Mr. Butler came.

He picked up the guitar, ashamed and enraged, and called Brett “a cunt”.

Brett didn’t get angry, didn’t curse back at him, didn’t punch into his wan narrow face that was now withered in wrath.

Calling him “a cunt” wasn’t a cruel thing.

Not at all.

Leaving him was.

***

Brett never speaks about the sex between him and Mr. Butler to anyone, just like he never wants to let anyone discover the love between him and Bernard.

He guesses - _knows_ \- that they could never have another poured summer afternoon that would magically turn into a sweet, sunny, sparky one.

Just like they would never have another sex together, never again.

Yet the secret remains, unsold but still beautiful.

He loved - _and still_ _loves_ \- Bernard Butler.


End file.
